The gooseberries who were left behind are destined for a life in coin-collection limbo

Saturday 8 May 1999 18.05 EDT
First published on Saturday 8 May 1999 18.05 EDT

Last week the Cricket World Cup was launched not so much with a fanfare as a solo rendition of Only The Lonely on a comb and paper. There are good reasons for this softly-softly approach, ones which go far beyond the fact that the players will be wearing the most ill-advised garb to be associated with a major international sporting event since Jimmy Greaves donned those hilarious slogan T-shirts ('Better Leighton Never!') during Italia 90.

First, the game is in turmoil. Not only have allegations surfaced that PriceWaterhouse Cooper, the City accountants behind the Test and one-day player ratings, have been influencing the outcome of matches by advising players such as Brian Lara and Sachin Tendulkar to defer making any more runs until the next accounting period to spread their tax burden, but now a group of educationalist do-gooders are attempting to ban the much-loved Wisden books.

Apparently these ever-popular volumes encourage all sorts of antisocial behaviour in young people, including: wearing white terry- cotton socks with bi-coloured bands round the top; carrying a Thermos flask of lukewarm tea; and interrupting important conversations about their long-term future by blurting out, 'Holland's Klaas Jan van Noortwijk scored 54 against Denmark in the European championship final, you know.'

As if these troubles were not enough, an internal battle within the ICC has only just been resolved. As the up-coming tournament's shellsuits, designer shades and theme tune from hip young rock'n'roller Dave Stewart plainly show, the power struggle between the radicals and the old guard is finally over. The modernisers have won and at last dragged cricket into the 80s.

Sadly, the captains of the competing countries seem reluctant to take up the new broom. Not one of them at the Lord's press call on Tuesday saw fit to strike a further blow for the revolution by wearing silky v-necks under their blazers, or pushing their jacket sleeves up to the elbows a la Miami Vice's Don Johnson.

How grateful Lord MacLaurin must be for stout old David Shepherd. The rotund umpire has clearly been swept along by the wind of change, merrily hopping about at New Road, Worcester last week sporting designer stubble and an 'I Shot JR' T-shirt. I believe the 58-year-old official has also personally supervised the design of a new style of white coat for the forthcoming competition, closely based on the trenchcoat worn by Midge Ure in the Vienna video.

Its introduction is likely to be opposed by Darrell Hair, however. The Australian apparently favours a Spandau Ballet-style kilt and frilly shirt combination which he believes will show off his powerful calves to best advantage.

There is another, more sensitive reason behind the low-key build-up to the opening game. For this is a period of reflection. A time to spare a thought for 'the boys who were left behind'. Because every major sporting event since the 1970 Mexico World Cup has seen unfortunate groups of men and women fall into what experts term 'Coin Collection Limbo'. These are the players who, owing to the pressure of printing and minting deadlines, make it into the tournament memorabilia but never on to the actual field of play.

This year the victims include uncapped innocents such as Nic Pothus, Virendra Senwag and Mahbubur Rahman. And although some, such as the Indian teenager Laxmi Shukla, are young enough to bounce back, for others, including, one suspects, the 32-year-old Trinidadian batsman Suruj Ragoonath, this appearance in the official magazine marks a lifetime high point.

Much sympathy is extended in the media to those cricketing gooseberries, the chronically underused touring players, a breed exemplified by the West Indian spin trio of Albert Padmore, Raphik Jumadeen and Inshan Ali (who was allowed only two overseas Test appearances despite sporting a bouffant-and-moustache combination which suggested he would react to a bat-pad catch by yelling 'Owzawopbopaloobopawopbangzt?'). Yet compared with those trapped in memento purgatory, these men have led a richly fulfilled existence.

Wherever the parenthesised qualification 'from' follows the squad list in a glossy brochure or sticker album you will almost certainly find one or two of these shadow people: sportsmen for whom this moment comprises their international career. That was how it was for Arsenal's Peter Simpson and Man City's Alan Oakes, both of whose smiling, hopeful faces featured on Esso's Mexico 70 coins but neither of whom ever played for England.

The Yorkshire opener Richard Lumb, meanwhile, was a serial sufferer, turning up in the (from) list in practically every souvenir tour programme of the 70s. Yet somehow the Doncaster-born Lumb always missed out on making it into the final 12.

His fate was like that of one of those pop acts that nose their way into the top 50 time after time but can never quite crawl high enough up the chart to get on Top Of The Pops. Poor Richard Lumb. Whatever great work he did out there on the club circuit, he was destined for ever to play Munich Machine to DL Amiss's Goombay Dance Band.

Over the next couple of weeks I will be spending a few moments every day in silent homage to these poor, brave lads, flicking through special newspaper pull-out supplements grown crinkled with age and pausing every once in a while to wipe away a tear and ask, 'Now, who the bloody hell was he?'